Mr dear Mr. Sinnett,
As you are about the only man I now know of incapable of betraying the sacredness of a private letter by sending it over to an enemy — even to save your life — I write to tell you two things.
(1) Mohini sent such private letter of mine to Mme. de Morsier; the one I wrote to him last week with the news that had just reached me that Solovioff had stepped out as a witness against me in the Mohini business with L. — to show that I knew his supposed crime (for it is a crime if it has happened) all the time and endeavoured to cover it, i.e. to play a vile part of hypocrisy, sham and Pecksniffism. Mme. de M. showed it immediately to Solovioff. Result: a thundering, threatening, sickening letter from Solovioff in which all the thunder and lightning individual and collective as from Russia are gathered together and thrown at me. I will write no more to Mohini — nor to any one either since today.
(2) You better give up the "Madame Blavatsky" Memoirs. If they come out now — you will have all Russia, my relations and the public against you and me — you do not care — I do. Solovioff threatens me moreover that Mr. Blavatsky is not dead but is a "charming centenarian" who had found fit to conceal himself for years on his brother's property — hence the false news of his death. Fancy the result if you publish the Memoirs and if he is indeed alive and I — no widow!! Tableau, and you will lose your reputation along with me. Please put the book by — at least its publication.
I have not decided yet what I will do. But do something I will. Please tell the part concerning him to Mohini but withhold the rest. I confide this to your honour. Did you ever picture to yourself an innocent, harmless boar who asked only to be left to live quietly in his forest, who had never hurt a man, and against whom a pack of hounds is let loose to get him out of that wood and tear him to pieces? For some time, of course, as long as he can and that there is hope for him to save his forest from desecration and himself as the guardian thereof. But when to those barking, howling, ferocious hounds, animals, hitherto friendly to the boar join themselves and pursue him for his life-blood then the boar comes to a dead stop and faces his enemies, ex-friends and all. And woe to the latter. The boar is sure to be murdered, overwhelmed by the number but there will be hundreds of dogs disemboweled and killed in the last and supreme smash. This is an allegory true to life. Make of it what you like.
I learn that Hodgson comes out as a witness of Mlle. L. against Mohini to the effect that he (Mohini) had another such seduction and love business, in India. Mr. S. has probably put my exclamation upon reading that first Mohini letter, "Its the second time such a thing (of chela seduction) happens in the Society" and putting the Hodgson evidence and gossip about Mohini — which he says is known to all in Paris and London — has made out of it "Le Coquin! c'est la seconde fois qu'il nous joue ce tour la. Il faut l'etouffer cette affaire!" — Clever. He threatens that if I bring his name into this dirty scandal, that all my devils (meaning Masters) will not save me from utter ruin. He speaks of Baron Meyendorff — of Blavatsky, and the reputation made for me by friends in Russia and elsewhere. The forest is surrounded and the boar is preparing to stop and face the enemy.
H. P. B.
Two words in PRIVATE. The Duchess is not such a friend of Mrs. K. and M. as you think. She has unbosomed herself to Olcott and me. She is their victim rather. She has paid for publishing their P. Way given them her ideas, and they never so much as thanked her or acknowledged it. They are ungrateful. Now she is our, not their friend. But she seems in awe of the divine Anna. One thing funny though. She tells me that though vegetarians they both drink wine at their meals — claret and liqueur fines — and James the butler adds even and told to the Duchess at dinner before us, that Mrs. K. "is very fond of champagne "!!! Now why does she then denounce you to K. H. as a wine bibber Now I want to know whether Mrs. K. makes a secret of it, or does (drink wine) openly? It is very important I should know it. Olcott will tell you this. Goodbye — Love to dear Mrs. Sinnett. I wish I could see you but — impossible.
H. P. B.
P.S. With regard to Memoirs. May be what Solovioff tells me of old Blavatsky "whom you (I) have prematurely buried" — is a wicked fib of his, thinking the news would overwhelm me, and perhaps it is not. I never had an official notification of his death, only what I learned through my Aunt at New York and again here. "His country seat ruined" he "himself had left years ago" and news had come "he was dead." I never bothered my brains about the old man: he never was anything to me, not even a legitimate, though hated husband. Yet if it turned out to be truth — (his father died when 108 and my own grandmother at nearly 112) and we talking all the while of him as though he were in Devachan or Avitchi — it would bring no end of trouble. If you think that the Memoirs would do good — then do so, only under your own responsibility and over your own name and giving only that which is printed in Russian. On either my Aunt or Sister do not rely. They will not hear of further "desecrations of the family secrets" as they call them. My Aunt may, perhaps, send two or three things. My sister is infatuated with Solovioff who set her against me and the society and poor Mohini — and now she writes to me letters in Mad. de Maintenon's style — bigoted and as cold and haughty as ice on Mont Blanc. She may go to grass. My Aunt says that she gave away that portrait and has it no more. I leave thus the publishing of the Memoirs with you, but I really think it is dangerous now. Delay the publication for a few months. Do not give it up, but do delay, for I feel there will come some insulting letters in the papers to add to them so and so, some dirty scandal as to my supposed three children etc. and what can or shall I do then? My position is a helpless one. There is not in the whole world a woman situated more miserably than I am. I am absolutely helpless.
Our Occult friend, the author of the immortal Kiddle flapdoodle, and of the premature note from Master who wrote with his inner self in the future (for Him the present), and it came out five minutes too soon at Schmiechen's — thinks you will appreciate better Bowaji's position by an illustration of his. There's a bootmaker at Torre del Greco named Jesus with the name on his sign board. Now he says no one can call him an "impostor" for calling himself Jesus; but if he allowed people to believe that he was Jesus Christ, and acted in this wise then he would be one unless he undeceived his public. Bowaji acts or acted as though he were the REAL chela, and this is where the deception begins. An ambassador representing his sovereign during the middle ages had every right and it was his duty to get married as a proxy for his King, and he had a right and it was his duty to shove his right leg into the bride's bed in great ceremony and before a select court. But if that Ambassador went further and made a child to the Queen in his Master's name — then he would find himself in a somewhat worse position than even our Mohini.
Sarma is a great friend of the Countess and says he is proud to call himself one. He talks for any length of time with her alone, and then will come sometimes and talk to us both; so that she and I hear him and see him at the same time. I care little for him but the Countess seems very fond of him — so much the better for Mr. Sarma. I send you Olcott's letter and his suggestions. He seems very cool about the bare possibility of "an Eurasian" as a memorial of Mohini's visit to London. It appears I have just been honoured with an election as a C.S.y for life. Very kind of them, at Adyar. Is Mrs. Sinnett angry with me that she has ceased suddenly writing? Do tell. Is the "copy" in London or still at Elberfeld? Please let me know and do "know, dare and keep silent."
H. P. B.